An Inner Monologue from the Mind of Severus Snape
by Kawa-Misuterii
Summary: The Potions Master reflects on his past, his present, and the millions of what-ifs.


Disclaimer, of course. I most certainly am not J.K. Rowling, and therefore do not own any of the characters mentioned below. With that out of the way, let me say hello! I picked up the Order of the Phoenix to pass some time during this blizzard, and it hit me: Snape never really gets to speak his mind while giving Harry Occlumency lessons. So I decided to (despite the fact that I've never written HP fanfiction before, I'm an InuYasha person when it comes to that) write a little piece that takes place shortly after their first lesson. I've tried to keep it as cannon as possible, so if I've got any facts mixed up, please tell me. You've got to have a pretty good understanding of the series and how Snape fit into all of it in order to understand this, so be sure to have that before you read. Other than that, please let me know if you think I've captured his personality.

That blasted Potter boy is far too like his father for his own good. I'm so generous as to bestow my expertise in these lessons in a subject that surely his pitiful powers could only dream of mastering, and he has the nerve to glare at me as if I'm torturing him simply because I had some spare time? Can't the little fool recognize the favor I've bestowed upon him? No, a child of the Potter lineage could only ever be an ungrateful leech on my psyche.

Still, there's no denying the imbecile has potential. Throwing off the Imperius Curse is no small accomplishment, and he did manage -eventually- to avert his mind from an intruder. For one who can't control his temper around even the likes of Dolores Umbridge, I can, regretfully, admit I was impressed.

I've spared far too much thought on him as it is, and yet I can't seem to get my mind off of the grim memories that lay at his core. It was painfully obvious by the rabid dog chasing him up a tree that he didn't grow up the comfortable muggle life one would imagine. Years of neglect at the hands of those guffawing oafs and that miserable, pinched, bland, muggle woman couldn't have been pleasant. I only caught flashes of his childhood, but most seemed to have been from the inside of a closet, starving, or at the abusive hands of a large muggle boy, nearly twice Potters' size.

If I had been present at these events, I can say with no hesitation that I would have laughed right along with them. To see any horror visit itself upon the face of the one who looks so like his father would have brought me much joy, I feel no shame in thinking it, I never have. But to experience it at his point of view, as I have...I don't know how to articulate my feelings on it, even to myself. There's no pity, no camaraderie…perhaps a sense of understanding.

When I can't see his loathsome face, when I force myself to forget exactly _who he is_, if only for a moment…yes, I can understand him.

To grow up without love, to come to a place with as much promise as Hogwarts, only instead to find more misery and trouble. It hasn't escaped my attention that he is the school's favorite scapegoat. He seems to be a source of fear, just as I used to be. They don't understand, the raw power and destiny we were both born into, and so they attack. I can say this; admit to our similarities, only to myself. They mock, they hiss, and they slander. We've been victim to them all. It's strange, how fear works against him at these times, and yet for him in relation to the Dark Lord. His fear of dementors is practically comical, although I wonder if I myself would fair much better against them with his memories. Mine alone are enough to suffice. I wouldn't wish for more.

Strange, how it took the sickening memory of the Chang girl getting fresh with him for the boy to remember I'd been watching. As if I was interested in the romantic explorations of the foolish wart and whatever little whore worms her way under his arm for some free publicity.

I suppose what surprised me the most was the -few- ways in which he _was_ unlike his father. He doesn't spend his time tormenting those he considers unworthy of him. In fact, more often than not, he stands up for less fortunates. An admirable quality, though it pains me to say. Were it not for his face that comes to mind…were he any other person, I could admit grudging respect. The sorting hat had recommended he be put in Slytherin…I wonder what would have been different had that path panned out, instead of the current one. Time has a way of teasing like that.

There's no denying that I will always hate him. For whom he is, and whose face he must revisit upon me each time he strolls into my classroom, a face that I shouldn't be forced to address in existence, not anymore. When I first heard the Potters were dead, why, for a blinding moment I felt an indescribable happiness…until my world shattered as I remembered the reason I had begged Dumbledore to prevent that very occurrence; as I remembered who else now held that wretched name. Lily…

On the dark days where I have no need to and therefore don't rise out of bed, when the call of my grudging duty to which remains the only reason I still live quiets, I can lay and stare at my ceiling, in a daze, as I fight the emptiness in my heart. I rely on these days to regain control over myself, to prevent succumbing to the crushing depression that often rears its ugly head when I am unfortunate enough to catch sight of _his_ eyes, _Lily's_ eyes, and only those eyes, and my heart stops for a moment, only to continue beating…I lay there and shoot down flies with my wand, an old habit. And I'll squint into the darkness, trying to imagine her voice as it begins to fade from my memory, but her face remains as crisp and clear as the last time I saw her, and she's saying something to me, over and over again, and I can't read her lips, but it's nice to think that she would have spoken to me, once more. But she didn't.

Nothing will occupy my mind save for the countless scenarios that play out in my minds eye, over and over again. What if I have never called her a mudblood? What if I had never joined the Death Eaters? What if she had seen the true side of James Potter, the side that only I knew intimately? No doubt I'd be a happier man. But nothing in my life has ever suggested happiness should ever visit itself upon me, and I have learned time after time that life isn't fair. The Dark Lord and brotherhood that came with the Death Eaters brought me no joy, only a shallow sense of power, which proved to mean nothing, in the end. What little happiness I ever knew came from only from her, and it was ill-fated, short-lived, and destroyed by my own hand. Her very life…my own hand.

If only she had forgiven me. I sometimes can't help but grow angry at how easily she forgot her first friend, how her own life could have been spared years before her demise had she only…instead of Potters boy, she would be the mother of _my_ child…and her child wouldn't have to endure the trials given to him by virtue of their righteous parents, as well as the Dark Lord, and, indeed, myself. They would never have to live as an orphan. Her child, _our_ child, would grow up in a home where they understood the value of brain over brawn, and petty talents like Quidditch are nothing to be marveled at.

What would our child have looked like? That is a pleasurable thought I have indulged in only a handful of times. I think I would have preferred a girl, with Lily's hair and smile, and especially her eyes. She would look nothing like me, and I would have treasured them both far more than Potter could have, protected them competently from the likes of the Dark Lord and his followers, prophecy or not. I would have brought them to a safer land, far away from the war, so they could live not only in security, but in freedom as well. And as the Dark Lord took his throne, we would live in peace and anonymity, thousands miles away.

Even if she had left Potter after they were married, even if she had brought along his damn brat, I would have taken her in. I would have forgiven any transgression, she could do no wrong in my eyes…yet I question why she didn't appreciate me? For all that my entire soul screams in longing and grief for her, in my darkest moments I hate her for her indifference. But even then, as that emotion gives only a spark of feeling up my spine, I quash it as I forgive her, as I have before and will again and again, and it twists me, and no matter what, I am left hating only myself.

Had the aforementioned situation panned out, and she had come to me with Potter's babe in her arms, I would have forgiven the child who he was, in return of my loves' love. How could I not? As she makes me weak, she would also make me strong, even now. To think, there could have been a time when I looked upon Potter's face with something other than my deepest loathing. I could have been…

Alas, time has panned out that neither of us gets what we want. We are not special in this instance, only understanding of others with similar fortunes, who are many in number. But the boy has one thing I haven't had in fourteen years. Hope. For the future, for his life, for the lives of those around him. He's done nothing to prove himself worthy, nothing to earn it as I have earned it my entire live and yet I still hear laughter, still see a smile on that wretched face in the Great Hall from time to time…perhaps, deep down…that is what I begrudge him the most.

Anyway, beyond a fever dream had in the dank, stale room of Spinner's End, my musings are preposterous. The twists in reality that would have to occur are nothing short of pure fantasy. And even then, it's hard to imagine myself as a 'family man'. Both Potter and I are doomed to service in the name of justice, our paths different but our cause the same. And then I am back to the unlikely understanding of the literal bane of my existence.

I don't envy the boy what awaits him. His future has been chosen for him, without his consent, without any verification if he has the mental capacity, which I doubt. More often than not I've seen him used as a tool, even by Dumbledore, a practice I abhor, but don't care enough to intervene. It seems he's so used to it, he doesn't notice; he has been used in various schemes since before his own birth.

I hate the boy, and yet he's what I have left to live for. None but I and Dumbledore could understand the meaning behind this, and yet I could imagine no other course in my life that wouldn't end in self-destruction. And so I will pound Occlumency into his thick skull until he can protect himself from the Dark Lords control, and therefore, someday…gain us both salvation.


End file.
